Hangover
by Goten0040
Summary: Dallas’s side of Three AM, by request… He shows up in your room as he sometimes does, but tonight, things are different. Johnny and Dally angst.


-1**Hangover**

_(Summary: Dallas's side of Three AM, by request… He shows up in your room as he sometimes does, but tonight, things are different. Johnny and Dally angst.)_

_(Author's Note: I got a few reviews on_ Three AM_ telling me to write Dally's side of the story. So I did. I think I like Johnny's side more, but this story is still close to my heart. Enjoy!)_

It was about midnight when you dragged yourself to bed, feeling awfully queasy and exhausted after downing probably a few too many beers with Buck. You plopped down against the cold sheets, yanked them up around you, and fell asleep immediately, only bothering to throw your shirt across the room. The room always smells of mildew and it's always the last thing you remember before your eyes close.

When you sleep, you dream. They usually consist of something terrible - vague memories from your past, your father's face, contorted and scarlet in anger as he throws a beer bottle against the wall. You can still smell it in your sleep, and it makes you wonder why the hell you ever picked up the bottle yourself. You toss and turn probably as much as your stomach does, and soon you're opening your eyes and gazing at the ugly spackled ceiling of the hotel room.

As soon as your eyes focus, a long creak catches your ears. The door opens slowly, a small crack of light spreading across the room before disappearing into darkness. _He's here_, you think to yourself silently. You wait for him to say something for a moment or two, and it bothers you when he says nothing. Usually, there's a soft _Dallas,_ or _Dally, you awake?_ But tonight, there is nothing. You raise up, your head spinning a bit, and squint through the moonlight at Johnny. He jumps.

He's standing in the middle of the room like he does sometimes. You've noticed that when Johnny comes to your room that he usually does one of three things. He either stands in the middle of the room until you get up, sits in the armchair in the corner with his jacket pulled around him, or, when he's really bothered, he might crawl in the bed with you and sleep away a few cuts and bruises. He did that the most after the Socs attacked him. But you notice he's trembling tonight, and yet he doesn't approach any further.

"Johnnycake?" You say softly, your voice still drunk with sleep. After all, you've only had about three hours. "That you?"

"Yes," he says, his voice unusually shaky and quiet. Yes, he's quiet, and usually nervous, but something's wrong. You can tell.

You kick your feet off the bed, yank the lamp chain, and move across the old carpet to the boy. In the light, you immediately notice deep, dark bruises on the boy's face, not to mention the swollen, bloody lip and the cut on his cheek. You feel a chill run down your back at the sight of him, and you can't help but feel the concern swell in your throat.

"Glory," you whisper. "Your old man do this to you?" You know the answer. You just don't believe it went this far.

He nods, his dark eyes glazed with tears. Suddenly, a rage wells in your stomach and boils into your chest. His damn father… his mother fucking father!

"Bastard!" You hiss against your will, eyes blazing.

Johnny starts, frighteningly pale, and your rage is cooled with a downpour of guilt. You swallow what's left of your anger and sigh.

"Let's get you cleaned up."

You walk slowly into the ugly hotel bathroom, flipping the light-switch on. The bright fluorescents are a shock to your beer-shot eyes and you squint them shut for a moment, feeling your head pound slightly. This was the last thing you needed. Buzzed like you are, you contemplate going to Johnny's home and punching his father into a wall. You jerk your head in direction of the bathroom door, waiting for Johnny to follow. He hesitates, but moves after you slowly.

Johnny's still not saying anything. It scares the hell out of you.

He stares into the mirror as if he's never seen the person on the other side. You've been there. You've looked at your battered face and wondered who the hell you were. You absently stroke the scar on your collar bone as you grab a washcloth from the wooden shelf barely nailed to the wall. You kneel and jerk Johnny's head in your direction. You don't want to hurt him, but when he's in shape like this it is usually quite difficult to get his attention otherwise. He seems so far away after a beating sometimes, you wonder if he'll come back.

You run the washcloth under the cold water faucet, squeeze it out, then place it to his face. He flinches, but you manage to clean off quite a bit of the dried blood. Still, the more you clean off, the worse his face seems to look. The bruises are almost black in the pale, white light. You clean up under his chin, then start on his neck. But you pause.

His neck has strangulation marks. It's almost blue with large, hand-shaped bruises. You stare at the bruises in silence, furious. _He didn't,_ you think. _There's no way…_

You've never wanted to kill someone so much in your life. In fact, you contemplate getting up, grabbing the heater from your dresser and showing Johnny's old man what real pain is. But they'd lock you up, and you couldn't do that to Johnny. Suddenly, you're aware of your surroundings again, and Johnny's got tears running down his face. He looks ashamed.

"Mother fuck-" you growl, exasperated. You don't usually say that around him, because you know it bothers him, but you're so frustrated that you just can't stand it.

Johnny tries to brush away tears, but they keep coming and he sobs against his will. Your fury is suddenly drenched in a deep hurt. You can't stand watching the kid cry. It makes you nauseous. You hate his father. You hate him more than you hate _your_ father. His trembling intensify to large quakes, and he collapse into your chest, his face red hot with sorrow. You can feel his tears against your skin and he breaks down. He's shaking so hard…

For a moment, you really don't know what to do. You gaze straight past him, but you don't focus on anything. You're seeing another boy in your mind, a small, blonde boy, hiding under his bed, trying to quiet sobs against a pillow as his father's shadow moves across the floor. Johnny clutches to you, his nails digging into your skin, but you don't care. You find yourself wrapping your arms around him. He chokes for a second in shock, but then falls back into a fit of tears.

"H-he tried to kill me! He _strangled_ me! I-I had to fight him off this time. C-c-cracked a lamp against h-his head. I'll p-pay for that, later. I know I will. I ran away. I-I came here. I _can't_ go home! I'd rather _die_!"

His final words hit you like lightning. You yank him back and grip his shoulders, looking him straight in his black eyes. You can feel your eyes burning, your heart slamming against your chest.

"Don't start talking like that! You know we couldn't make it without you, Johnnycake. You've got us." Your vision blurs and your voice cracks against your will.

His shaking quells a little bit, but tears still run down his cheeks. After what seems forever, he speaks again, leaning against your chest.

"I… I wish… I was like you, Dally. I wish I didn't cry at all… like you. You never cry."

You remember that little blonde boy, the night he thought he couldn't cry anymore, and realize that you _never_ want Johnny to ever live that moment.

"Yeah… I know…" you whisper.

And for the first time in many, many years, tears squeeze out the edges of your eyes. You hold him there, and somehow, you know that no matter how much he wants to be you, he never will. You're glad. You'll do anything to make that happen, and if that means being there for him at three in the morning, hung over, crying on the bathroom floor, well, you sure as hell will be there.

Always.


End file.
